Chapter 47
Drogen stood still, his piercing gaze locked on Bruce, his brow furrowed deeply.
"There's nothing wrong with me," he said, his tone firm and unyielding.
Bruce narrowed his eyes, his voice sharp and biting. "Drogen, you're losing it. Over a human. Do you even realize what you're doing? What the hell is wrong with you?"
The words struck Drogen like a slap, forcing him to confront the truth. He exhaled slowly, his body rigid, the tension in his jaw refusing to ease. Bruce's accusation wasn't entirely baseless—back at the scene, he had been utterly consumed by rage. It was unlike him. Unthinkable.
"I..." He hesitated, his hand flexing at his side. "I'm not losing it," he muttered, more to himself than Bruce. But the words lacked conviction.
Bruce wasn't about to let it go. "You call that control? You tore through those men like a rabid beast. Torture is one thing, but that? That was something else entirely."
Drogen turned away, leaning against the wall with an air of forced nonchalance. He shoved his hands into his pockets, his face impassive, though his clenched fists betrayed him. "Someone tried to kill me," he began, his voice eerily calm. "And in the process, they hurt her. You think I'd let that slide? They deserved every bit of what they got."
Bruce stepped closer, his voice rising. "That's not the point, and you know it. You've faced worse threats, bigger dangers, and never lost control like that. Why is this human any different?"
Drogen didn't respond immediately. He tilted his head back, staring at the ceiling as if searching for an answer. His expression hardened, but deep down, the truth gnawed at him. Why was she different?
"I promised to protect her," he finally said, his tone cold and measured. "And as long as she's with me, I'll destroy anyone who dares to harm her."
Bruce studied him carefully, his frustration mounting. "Protecting her doesn't mean throwing your sanity out the window," he snapped. "You don't even realize what's happening, do you?"
Drogen's eyes flicked to Bruce, narrowed with suspicion. "What are you trying to say?"
"Do I have to spell it out for you?" Bruce challenged, his tone sharp. "You're falling for her."
Drogen froze. The words hit harder than he'd expected, stirring something he wasn't ready to confront. His mind raced, seeking denial, but the unease in his chest was undeniable. "That's impossible," he said stiffly. "You know what happens if I fall for her. I die. And I'm still here, aren't I?"
Bruce folded his arms, exasperation flickering in his gaze. "Then stop acting like it. Because whether you realize it or not, everything you've done screams that you're already halfway there."
Drogen's face turned cold, the vulnerability vanishing in an instant. "I don't have time for this," he said icily, pushing himself off the wall. "Edward has a debt to pay, and I plan to collect until he begs for mercy."
Before Bruce could respond, Drogen vanished, leaving nothing but silence and frustration in his wake.
Bruce ran a hand through his hair, pinching the bridge of his nose as a headache threatened to surface. "That stubborn fool," he muttered under his breath. "He's falling for her, whether he admits it or not. And if that happens... I can't let him die. Not like this."
He began pacing, his mind racing for a solution. Drogen's feelings were a dangerous path, and Bruce knew it. If Drogen succumbed to them, it would be the end of everything.
"I have to stop this before it's too late," Bruce murmured, determination hardening his expression. "He doesn't realize what's at stake, but I do. And I'll do whatever it takes to keep him alive."
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Back at Edward's mansion, the dimly lit study was heavy with tension. Edward paced the room, his nerves unraveling with each passing second. The silence felt suffocating, broken only by the occasional creak of the wooden floor beneath his restless steps. His glass of whiskey sat untouched on the desk, the amber liquid trembling slightly from his jittery movements.
His plan had to work. It had to. If Dante was still alive, the consequences would be catastrophic. His secrets, carefully buried for years, would surface like a tidal wave and destroy everything he'd built.
Unable to stand the suspense any longer, Edward snatched his phone off the desk, his fingers trembling as he dialed the number of his hired accomplice. The ringing felt endless, each second stretching unbearably. Finally, the call connected.
"Hey," Edward barked, his voice sharp with desperation. "What's taking so long? Didn't you send them?"
A raspy chuckle came from the other end. "Relax, Mr. Edward. I sent them just like you asked. By now, I'm sure his car's been crushed to bits. That man is as good as dead."
Edward's breath hitched, but the reassurance wasn't enough to calm the storm inside him. His chest tightened with anxiety, and beads of sweat formed on his forehead. "I need to be sure," he demanded, his voice shaking. "I need to know for certain he's dead."
There was a pause on the other end, the kind that made Edward's heart race faster.
"Why don't you confirm that from the man himself?"
The deep, chilling voice that rumbled through the phone wasn't his accomplice's. It was him.
"D-Dante," Edward stammered, barely able to form the name.
"Surprised to hear my voice?" Drogen's tone was calm, almost mocking, but beneath it was a cold menace that sent a shiver down Edward's spine. "I suppose I should thank you for the entertainment. But sending amateurs to kill me? That's insulting."
Edward couldn't breathe. His mind raced, grasping at straws, searching for a way out of the nightmare unfolding. How was this possible? He should be dead. He should be gone.
"I-I don't know what you're talking about," Edward stuttered, his voice cracking under the weight of his fear. "You must be mistaken—"
"Save it," Drogen interrupted, his voice like steel. "You can't lie your way out of this, Edward. I know everything. And trust me, you'll wish you had never crossed me."
The line went dead, leaving Edward in a suffocating silence. He stood frozen, the phone slipping from his grasp and clattering onto the floor. His legs finally gave out, and he collapsed into his chair, gasping for air.
What have I done?